


violets and poppies

by orphan_account



Series: petals and soulmates [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 16:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20642057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Violet doesn't have a soulmate, but she has violets all over her skin.





	violets and poppies

Violet first found about souls when she was seven and Susie, her classmate, met her five-year-old soulmate. Her only soulmate. Susie threw a fit, not wanting to be anywhere near the poor boy. He was five, he didn’t understand. 

As her classmates slowly found their soulmates, each having some sort of bond that made them  _ know _ when they met their soulmates, Violet never had that. No timer at her wrist, no mark, no  _ nothing _ . 

At age seventeen, Violet first fell in love. The object of her affections was an artist, soft spoken and kind and  _ bright _ . She was so sure he was her soulmate. The violet on her ankle that had started to grow when they first met only seemed to prove her theory. His name was Roux. Three days after she realized her feelings, Roux met his soulmate. A blonde, stuck up cheerleader who treated Roux like a toy. 

Her name was Miranda and her friends all abandoned her when a shriveled violet appeared on her cheek. 

It was when the violets and vines adorning her ankles reached halfway up her calves that she finally realized the ones she’d fallen in love with each grew a flower, and their soulmates were always using them or hurting them. And every hurtful, abusive soulmate got a shriveled violet on their cheek.

It was when the violets started appearing on her wrists when Violet started writing. She started telling stories about how her shriveled violets grew on the unfaithful, selfish soulmates. She told about the people she’d received violets from, how they taught her the lessons she needed to learn. She told about the trans girl she’d gotten a violet from who was too afraid of her soulmate to tell her that she was trans. She told about relationships and shriveled violets and new life. 

Violet’s first book was instantly popular. She’d taken away all the names and told the story of Roux and Miranda. With poppies instead of violets. Poppies were Roux’s favorite flower, unlike his sunflower soulmark. 

It was called Poppy, and Violet’s first violet, Roux’s violet, turned into a poppy. 

Violet kept writing, until she’d written every single violet away into a new flower. Until she had no more violets scrawled across her skin. 

She wrote until her fingers bled and she had no more ink left to write. She spread every story she’d lived. All under the alias Flores. Part of her wondered if her flowers recognized their stories. All those loves she hadn’t been able to hold close. 

Violet had never dated, never fallen in love with someone whole. She was just a broken girl, under all the stress of loving those who couldn’t love her back. It was hard work, falling out of love. 

Violet had seventy two flowers, seventy two stories. Some as short as a hundred word and others, like her very first, breaking a thousand pages. 

Seventy two loves who couldn’t love her back. Seventy two shriveled violets marking those who didn’t love their soulmates enough to keep them. 

She wasn’t sure why she surprised to see Miranda again. Drunk, wrecked, tear stained, broke. A shriveled violet on her cheek to remind her of how she failed. A copy of Poppy in her bag. Wading through the crowds, heartbroken and in no condition to dance. 

_ I did that _ , Violet thought.  _ I turned her into that mess. _

It felt like  _ power _ . 

And Violet didn’t want that power. 

She pushed through the crowds to pick Miranda off the ground and pull her to her feet. Miranda tried to resist, but gave in and let Violet yank her to the sides of the club. Her eyes were already filling with tears. 

Miranda sobbed her way after Violet, collapsing to the ground as soon as Violet let go. Violett spotted Roux shoving through the crowds, his gaze catching on hers quickly and  _ staying _ . Violet winked, leaning down to kiss Miranda’s cheek. The violet bloomed, no longer shriveled and dead, and the petals changed. The new, yellow rose looked almost golden in the crappy lighting. 

When Roux reached Miranda, she was alone again. Just as broken as the last time he’d had to drive her home from the club. The mystery woman (the one who’d helped Miranda out of the dance floor) was gone. But where she’d kissed Miranda’s cheek, the dying violet was replaced with a golden rose. 

He thought of his soulmark, the sunflower on his back. The one that matched Miranda’s, that had changed after Poppy came out. Miranda’s hadn’t changed, it was still a sunflower. Roux treasured his poppy. Maybe, someday, he’d meet her. The woman who apparently fallen in love with him at seventeen. He didn’t remember who could have been in all of the memories in Poppy. 

He had only told one girl his favorite flower, and he didn’t know who. Flores, whoever she was. He’d find her one day. He was sure of it. 

Miranda stared at herself in the mirror. She almost didn’t recognize herself, with the golden rose replacing the crumpled violet. She wanted to thank the nameless woman. Miranda turned to her copy of Poppy. She flipped open to the cover page, starting to trace the lettering like she always did. 

_ Flores _ was signed in loopy, lavender ink, a silent testimony to what Violet had done for Miranda.  _ Flores _ was signed, because she wasn’t really Violet anymore.  _ Flores _ was signed, because she loved and broke and did it all over again. Because she was everything the world needed, because she was there. The shriveled violet was a blessing, not a curse. It was a blessing telling you to get better. To own your mistakes and fix them. 

Miranda was one of Miss Fortune’s blessed, and she couldn’t imagine the kind of girl she’d be if she wasn’t. 

The rose on her cheek was telling her you’re ready. You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You’re enough. 

And the skip in her heart was telling her her soulmate was still alive today. 


End file.
